“City or state?”
“Isn’t the answer both?”
“Smart-ass.”
“Pretty much.”
He fills the shaker with more and keeps working. “What brings you to Coconut Beach, New York?”
“I want tolive the sweet life,” I say, repeating the island’s slogan that I didn’t miss when I left the airport this morning. It’s painted and splashed on everything.
“Don’t we all? You’ll find it here. Guaranteed.” He taps the bar twice and moves to a guy in a Hawaiian shirt who’s ordering for a big table behind him.
My stool is at the far end, which gives me a full view of the room. Cal is everywhere at once, flipping bottles and calling regulars by name or nicknames he randomly gave them. He pours shots for a group who screams every time he tosses a bottle in the air and catches it behind his back. I finish my double faster than I mean to.
“I gotchu, New York. Ten seconds,” he says, breaking a hundred for someone.
Cal makes life look effortless, and every person he talks to walks away in a better mood than when they arrived. My presence usually has the opposite effect on people. He refills my glass.
“You have thisCIA agentvibe going,” he says, offering me a glass of water.
The laugh comes out before I can stop it, and I don’t recognize it. The booze is working.
“I can see that,” I say.
“You didn’t deny it.” He shrugs, and then he’s gone. The guy sees every single person in this room.
The band finishes a song, and the singer leans into the mic. “How we doing tonight, Coconut Beach? How’re the cocktails?” he asks.
The crowd hoots and hollers in response.
“Oh, look what time it is. This one goes out to anyone who’s been working too hard.”
The opening notes of “Margaritaville”hit, and people flood in front of the stage from every direction. I’m convinced I’m living inside a cliché.
Cal pours a line of shots while the crowd sings along. In this life experience, I’m an onlooker instead of a participant. And still, no one gives a shit about me. I could get used to that.
My hand goes to my pocket for my phone, but it’s back in my room. Everyone knows I need to be left alone right now anyway,so I’m sure I have no missed notifications. I people-watch to fill the time.
Then I see her.
The woman from the B&B walks in from the boardwalk, pulling my attention before I can explain why. Her dark hair falls in loose waves, and she’s in a sundress. She crosses the bar with a confidence that doesn’t match anyone else in the room and pulls the lady with the bob sitting at a table into a hug.
A server appears with a blue drink before she takes her seat. The high ponytail is gone. She seems like a different person than when she’s at work.
“That’s Wendy and Fallon,” Cal says as I shoot the rest of my whiskey back. He fills it without me asking. “Wendy’s the brunette, and Fallon’s the one with the short hair. Besties since childhood. They’re in here a few times a week. Wendy’s a tequila girl. Salt and a lime. Fallon drinks lemon drops. Want to send them a round?”
“No. I’m good. I’m not here for that.”
“So, youarea spy?”
“That’s how rumors get started,” I say, watching Wendy across the bar.
The women finish their first round and start their second, and when the band switches songs, Fallon stands. She grabs Wendy’s wrist to drag her toward the dance floor. Wendy shoots a death glare, but Fallon begs. With a sigh, Wendy finishes what’s left of her drink and follows begrudgingly.
At first, she stands there stiffly and pouts, but she looks so pretty, doing it. The string lights overhead catch her bare shoulders, and she’s a sight to fucking see. Fallon tells her to cheer up, and Wendy rolls her eyes. I’m familiar with the expression she’s carrying. Maybe it’s because we’re both dead inside. Part of me wants to confirm it.
Then the chorus starts, and Wendy allows herself to let go. She closes her eyes and sways to the music. It’s slow at first, her hips moving to the rhythm. She tips her head back and mouths the lyrics with a soft smile. This one is real. I see her shed her resistance and give in, even if it’s not easy.
